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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27772885">The Visitor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacreblue/pseuds/zacreblue'>zacreblue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>?? or during the podcast, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Gets a Hug, M/M, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, The Admiral - Freeform, and almost gives martin a heart attack in the process, honestly up to u, i liked this tag and also it counts, jon adopts a cat, jon and martin share an apartment, technically, this is the fluffiest thing ive written in ages it was truly healing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:34:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27772885</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacreblue/pseuds/zacreblue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin comes home one evening to find Jon in distress. Fearing the worst, he races inside to discover him surrounded by broken glass and... the remnants of one of their houseplants? <br/>Everything is clearly not as it seems, and this suspicion is confirmed when Jon tells him they have a visitor in their midst.<br/>(Or, Jon and Martin adopt a cat.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Visitor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the fluffiest thing I've written in ages, and honestly, I hope it's evident how self indulgent I got with this one near the end. Inspired by one of my friends who recently started listening to TMA and suggested I write "something about kittens". Kinda spiralled from there, as you can probably tell!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Now, let’s see, let’s see… keys, yes, bag, yes, pastries, yes, phone… yes.” Martin pats his belongings as he checks each item off his list, before letting out a little breath of relief. There’s a soft electronic <em>ping!</em> from the overhead speaker, and the train doors slide open, letting in a whoosh of stale subterranean air, and the sounds of the city above. Martin hasn’t misplaced his keys for ages now, but he still finds himself double checking before stepping off the train each evening. Jon thinks it would have been tricky to lose them on the train when Martin’s already so paranoid about pick pocketers and forgetting his bag on one of the seats (never again) but Martin’s convinced that’s what happened the last time. Jon can roll his eyes all he likes, but Martin’s the one who brings home cherry danishes and lemon bars from the bakery every Tuesday evening for them to share with one another.</p><p>Martin relaxes as he exits the crowded metro station, finally at street level and out of the noisy tunnels. Pink sunlight washes over the city, the late day bustle of busy feet and heavy coats making their way back to their many homes, or evening shifts. Some pigeons scuttle out of the way as he crosses the street with a smattering of others, feet carrying him along the pavement without needing to think twice about direction. Their SoHo apartment has been home for long enough now that the journey back to their red bricked building is one he could make with his eyes closed.</p><p>There comes a heavy cry from behind the closed door. Martin almost drops the keys in his haste to wrench them from his coat pocket and into the keyhole. A few fumbles and it twists open. Even in his panic to get inside and locate his boyfriend, he remembers all of Jon’s gentle nagging about tracking dirt through the apartment and toes his shoes off before making his way frantically towards the voice he can hear further inside, bags forgotten by the doorway and fuzzy socks skidding across the hardwood floor, until he sees Jon on his knees in the kitchen.</p><p>“Jon! Jon are you alright?” Martin rushes over, almost knocking against the kitchen island, and drops to Jon’s side on the cool tiles. “Are you —” Several shards of blue porcelain litter the floor beneath the window where they’re both crouched, pockmarks of glass from what Martin knows used to be an ancient flowerpot. There’s some dirt left on Jon’s forearms and he’s evidently been here a little while, but he still looks ruffled. Alright, but ruffled. He turns to Martin, and there’s a bit of wild desperation in his eyes, which is a bit strange, but, well.</p><p>“Martin!” Oh dear, he really is quite exasperated. “Martin we have a problem.” Jon motions as if to clasp onto his arm, but seems to think better of it, given the tiny specks of glass still clinging to his rubber kitchen gloves, and turns back to the mess. “A real situation.”</p><p>Martin tries to quell the wave of dread in his stomach. “Yes?”</p><p>“We have a visitor.” Oh lord. “Well, maybe more than that.” Great, because that sounds so much better. What could it be this time? “We have a new… housemate.”</p><p>He blinks. “A… housemate?” “Yes, I was on my way home tonight, and he followed me home, I—” This statement on its own was alarming enough, but then something dense and soft seems to curl itself around Martin’s leg, having come up from behind, and Martin shouts, jumping to his feet with fright.</p><p>And he sees a cat.</p><p>A <em>cat</em>. Oh, he could cry.</p><p>“Jon, care to tell me—“</p><p>“Yes, well, as I said, he followed me home. I think he’s – was – a stray, and I sent Georgie a picture because he really doesn’t look too badly off, but she says she can’t have another pet at the moment, and I’m not quite sure what…” He stares at the little creature, black coat dappled with brown and white splotches, clearly at a loss. “I’m not quite sure what to do. He’s been here all evening at this point, and I just—"</p><p>“You’re rambling, dear.”</p><p>“Yes, well. Just look at him.” Martin does look, and he’s still a bit wary. Although... it <em>is</em> quite cute.</p><p>“Are you sure it’s not…”</p><p>“It’s just a cat, Martin. No need to sound the alarms.” Martin gives him a look. “He’s fine. I’m sure of it.” Jon reaches out a hand, and actually smiles as the cat makes its way over, stepping expertly over the leftover shards of glass and rubbing its tiny head against the hand extended to it. Jon scratches behind its ears, and even from where he stands, Martin hears its purrs; they fill the little kitchen. “He really is quite friendly, and just… he seemed so much like he wanted to come home with me. I honestly hardly noticed he’d followed me all the way to the foot of the building, and well, he just sort of darted past me when the door opened. I tried to tell him to get out, but. Well.”</p><p>Now Martin’s feeling a little exasperated himself. “Oh, Jon…” He murmurs.</p><p>“I know, I know. I just… I don’t want to take him somewhere? Somewhere that might not… find him somewhere suitable to stay.”</p><p>“It’s alright love, I know what you mean.” Martin bends down to examine the mess more closely. There are a few small bits of leaves left strewn in whatever dirt Jon hasn’t already tidied up; it must have been their monstera plant, or maybe the caladium. “Let’s finish this up, kay? Then we can worry about the little monster.” This earns a soft laugh from Jon, and so Martin fetches the broom from the nearby pantry and they sweep up the remains of their recently-demised houseplant, thankfully the only casualty of what started out as a fairly stressful evening.</p><p> </p><p>Jon is washing his hands in the sink afterwards when some soap breaches the inconveniently placed spot on his hand where the cat had scratched him earlier. He lets out the slightest hiss of pain (and maybe a few muttered curses) which does nothing to dissuade Martin from wanting to see what’s wrong. Jon relents, letting Martin step up to his side to see the small, angry cut arcing diagonally along the top of his right hand.</p><p>“Did the cat do this?” He murmurs, resting a hand on the small of Jon’s back, and really, he looks far too concerned. “I feel a bit silly being angry at a street cat of all things, but really Jon, look at that scratch! Little bugger.”</p><p>Jon turns off the tap and chuckles a bit, then turns into his boyfriend’s embrace, leaning back against the countertop. “It’s all good now. I tried to pick him up and I think it spooked him; that’s when the plant fell actually, he bolted away from me and jumped up onto the counter.” Jon grins despite the sting of the cut as he tells the story. “The plant crashing down only scared him even more, though – I think he made it all the way to the bedroom before he hid for a bit, and settled down.”</p><p>That’s when both he and Martin notice that a few other things are askew as well; the calendar on the fridge is lopsided and the photographs of Melanie and Basira, one of their trip to Italy, have fallen against the tiles. The blinds above the sink even look a bit rumpled. Martin lets out a <em>tsk</em>, and Jon waves him off gently, shrugging. “Like I said, it's all good, love. Besides, what’s one more scar, really.” Jon remarks, and huffs out a little laugh. It should have sounded bitter, but the look on his face must settle Martin’s worries a bit, as he’s rewarded with a quiet laugh in return.</p><p>“I suppose you’re right… one with a much more entertaining story behind it, at least. Or amusing, rather.” Martin gingerly takes Jon’s hand, looking at the scratch a little more closely, and Jon scoffs.</p><p>“Maybe for you, at least. Lord knows Melanie’s going to get a kick out of this entire situation.” Martin is still examining the little cut and seems to be satisfied that it won’t be too much of a problem, since he doesn’t even insist on running and fetching a bandage. One from the massive, silly box of them he’d bought months ago from the Tesco nearby, all in bright colours with little flowers and polka dots and smiley faces on them, of all things. Martin doesn’t budge, rather he’s very quiet.</p><p>Martin sends a smile his way, then, and Jon’s posture visibly loosens up as Martin brushes his thumb several times across the back of his hand, before lifting it slowly and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckle, just an inch or so above the tiny cut. “Let’s just hope there aren’t any kittens to worry about, either…” Jon continues, and it’s in vain; his voice trails off, because Martin is still giving him <em>that</em> look, the one filled with so much warmth, his eyes heavy and dark and gentle. Looking into them feels as steady and anchoring as a nice cup of tea, and really, Jon just cannot stand it. Their joined hands are resting against his jawline now, and Jon leans in, meeting Martin halfway for a kiss.</p><p>More than one kiss, as it turns out, before a small <em>mew</em> pulls them from what was shaping up to be a wonderful, well, what else to call it but a “make-out session”. Jon grimaces but this time it’s Martin who bends down and reaches out a hand, making an odd little “psst-psst” noise until, to Jon’s slight bewilderment, the little cat is right up in Martin’s space, purring and twining itself around him, enjoying the affection. He’s nervous for a moment when Martin moves to pick the cat up, but it seems to have no issue, because suddenly Martin is standing in front of him again, and the cat is swaddled in his sweater-laden arms, much like a little baby. “Oh, look at you…” Martin coos. “You’re not so evil, are you? Hardly a harbinger of doom, I’d say.” The cat stares up at him with wide hazel eyes. A little baby, indeed, it seems.</p><p>“So.” Martin says.</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“Are you keeping him, then?” Martin is still looking down at the cat, digging his fingers along its fluffy neck in a way that the little mongrel is obviously enjoying; in a way that Martin is clearly becoming increasingly enamoured of. “Couldn’t hurt to have a little friend around the place, huh. Say, what’s that cat you’ve showed me pictures of before, uh… Georgie’s cat, I think… it had some sort of weird name.”</p><p>“The Admiral? Oh, yeah, that’s Georgie’s cat. Haven’t been there in ages, but…” Jon lets out a little breath and concedes to joining Martin in petting their unexpected little housemate, stepping closer and brushing his fingers against the cat’s soft fur. “I do miss him a fair amount, if I’m being honest. I kept on finding cat fur on nearly everything I owned for months, even after moving out again, but… it was nice, the extra company. I mean, I have you of course, but…” He's rambling again, and Martin’s smiling at him in that particularly soft manner, where his eyes go all crinkly at the edges, and Jon has to look away. “What the hell, why not.”</p><p>“I couldn’t agree more. Well, he’ll be needing a name, then!” Martin concludes. “What do we think? Something cute? Something fictional? Maybe something a little strange, like The Admiral?”</p><p>Jon thinks he’s joking about that last bit, but decides to humour him. “Hmm. How about The Major?” He offers. The cat in question simply blinks up at him, clueless to the notion of demonyms and designations. “It's not too bad, honestly. He seems rough and tough enough to live up to the name, don't you think?” The cat bats a little paw at his sleeve, seemingly done with all the attention for now, and Martin sets him down. The nameless tabby quickly makes his way over to the windowsill, curling up against the glass, pooled in the dusky light of the city just beyond. Jon turns back, and Martin’s still looking at him, but now he looks positively mischievous. Never a good sign.</p><p>“What is it, Martin.”</p><p>Martin glances at the bookshelf behind them, where one section is filled to bursting with old journals and several dozen record sleeves. “I’ve got just the one. <em>Major Tom.</em>”</p><p>Jon casts a level stare his way. “Unbelievable.”</p><p>Martin bites back a grin and lasts about a half of a second longer before he breaks, laughing loudly at his own atrocious pun.</p><p>Jon pulls out the old David Bowie record from the heavy stack and shoots Martin a fond, if slightly exasperated, look. “That is horrible. Absolutely horrible, Martin. Have you no shame.” Martin’s still laughing, and Jon just has to give in, shoulders shaking very slightly before leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek.</p><p>“Alright, Major Tom it is, then.”</p><p>The resounding purr from the windowsill is all the confirmation they need.</p><p> </p><p>( “Maybe Lawnmower would have been more suitable. Jackhammer. Motorboat."</p><p>"Jon."</p><p>"Gosh, he's really quite loud, don’t you think?”</p><p>“<em>Hush</em>, Jon. I think you’ve just made him happy.” )</p>
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